


Twelve Tongue Positions (sacred or otherwise)

by Write_like_an_American



Category: Cable and Deadpool, Deadpool (Movieverse), Deadpool - All Media Types, Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Many Blow Jobs, Multi, Nathan teaches them to Wade, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Yondu teaches Nathan the twelve tongue positions of Alpha Centauri, a jokey concept that somehow spawned a fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-25
Updated: 2018-05-25
Packaged: 2019-05-13 17:37:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14753322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Write_like_an_American/pseuds/Write_like_an_American
Summary: Nathan had to learn those twelve Centaurian tongue positions from somewhere, right?





	Twelve Tongue Positions (sacred or otherwise)

**Author's Note:**

> **This started out as a cracky concept inspired by the wonderful SenkoWakimarin's _The Twelve Tongue Positions of The Alpha Centauri._ With the enthusiastic encouragement of my Tumblr crew, it became _a thing_. You're welcome. The characters are based on the comics.**

It's utter moomba-crap, of course.

Yondu don't know jack shit about his own culture, much less any top-secret prowess-enhancing fertility rituals.

Oh, he's sure the Centaurians _have 'em_ – he saw the lil' idols when he broke into the temple; had himself a snigger at their golden third legs. But he ain't never smoked no fancy 'erbs nor sacrificed no babies (and _yeah,_ Stakar'd glare at him for talking that shit about Less Privileged Species, but these jackasses are _Yondu's_ Less Privileged Species and they sold him before he was walking, and that means they deserve everything they get).

Anyway. Now ain't the time to be thinking about what's gone and past.

The big guy's _right there._ Looming over him, cracking his knuckles, blocking the light that dapples through the overhanging fronds.

The morning slips into a sleepy trough after matins. They stand in a small clearing, one of several verdant vestibules that surround the sacred falls. The air hums with insects, stirring the forest’s perfume – sap and chlorophyll, decomposing goo.

Ain't nobody around but the big Terran man. The Visitor, the villagers call him. Just him, Yondu, and the chunk of yaka-ore that Yondu had been in the process of shoving under his loincloth.

“Uh,” he says.

“What,” rumbles the Visitor, “is this.”

Yondu dons his most charming grin. “Playin' hide an' go-seek?”

“With a sacred rock from the temple's inner sanctum?”

Yondu holds his prize at arm's length, feigning shock. “Huh, so it is. Whatta whacky coincidence.”

The Visitor subjects him to a slow blink. “I'll say. Do you often hide rocks in your skirt?”

“I – it ain't no skirt!”

“And your accent _ain't_ local, friend. Who are you? What are you doing on a protected world?”

Yondu could ask the same of him – but it ain't his business, and he's been Ravaging long enough to know when to keep his nose out.

Plus, they can’t make too much noise. Don't want to interrupt the monks from all that meditation, which makes it _so very easy_ for a certain member of the Centaurian diaspora to lighten their ceremonial altar by a rock.

If the monks find out what he's done, there'll be all sorts of hullabaloo. Yelling and cussing and name-calling _,_ you name it. Might even be _whistling_ too – at which point Yondu'll wind up killing someone, and Stakar will be _so_ disappointed _._

Nope. A fight ain’t the way out of this.

So Yondu does the only other thing he can do. He looks the Visitor in his freaky mismatched eyes, lifts his loincloth, and shoves the rock under his jockstrap.

So there.

The Visitor raises a silver brow. It's the scarred one, split by three sharp lines. “That's an unusual mode of worship.”

“What can I say,” Yondu drawls. “Me an' Anthos're tight.”

The other brow joins the first. The mismatched eyes travel up and down. “ _Tight_ , you say?”

Ah.

Well, that certainly makes things easier. He can work with this.

Yondu _grins._

“I need ya,” he says, walking closer – and blaming the swing in his hips on the rock, because damn, that _chafes_ \- “to get outta my way.”

The big guy smoulders down at him. “Would you like to try and make me?”

No, in all honesty. Yondu's unarmed, this guy outweighs him by double – triple, if you factor in the metal – and Yondu's face is too darn purty to get it messed up in a brawl against some rando-cyborg. Luckily, he's a team player. He's sure that if he and Mr Muscles work together, they can come to a mutually beneficial solution.

The Visitor stands perfectly still. The only movement is the mosquito buzzing around his shoulder and the faintest twitch of his smile.

His metal arm bounces back the glare from Alpha Centaurii-IV's triplicate suns. It's the brightest thing under the canopy, drawing bugs like a fly-zapper, and – well. Yondu's always had a thing for shinies.

“How's about,” he says, resting his hands on those sculpted flesh-and-steel pecs, “I prove to ya that I'm from the village?”

The Visitor grunts his approval. His prick already has a lil' chub to it, although his pour-on pants trap it flush to his thigh.

Ugh. _Pants._ The sooner Yondu gets this over with, the sooner he can dump his jockstrap and its extra cargo and hop back in 'em.

“How do you propose to do that?” the Visitor asks.

Yondu sucks his tongue, working up saliva. The lump along the Visitor's inseam suggests that he might need a lot of it.

“You ever heard of the Twelve Sacred Tongue Positions of Alpha Centauri-IV?”

 

* * *

 

 

Twenty years later, things are different. To start with, Nathan’s the one on his knees, and the idiot in front of him is red rather than blue. Wade yammers hell-for-leather about _You do know that end ain't any prettier than this one, right?_ and _Can we take pics for Vanessa?_ and _Don't you think this whole concept is a little contrived; I mean, it was only one line in the comics..._

Nathan lets him get on with it. He's more interested in extricating anything from Wade's pouches that's liable to go boom.

“When did you even _visit_ Alpha Centauri?”

Hand grenades patter the ground at Wade's feet like baubles off a macabre Christmas tree.

“Or – wait, I know the answer to this one. Did you get lost on the way? _Danger, Nate Cable?_ (Or however many other names you have at the moment; I’ve kinda lost track.)”

 _K-thunk,_ goes the wodge of plastic explosive.

“If you’re the lovechild of a Summers and that disturbingly muscular robot, it would explain both the glowing eye _and_ the brooding psycho attitude.”

Nathan pulls a cartoonishly large stick of dynamite from Wade's back pocket – very Freudian – and places it with all due care on the windowsill. If their safehouse had curtains they'd be flapping in the breeze; as it is, the crack in the pane only stirs the slurry of dust and damp and rotten Pappasito's takeaway, mingling it with Wade's body odor and whatever died in the corner (Nathan’s vote is either on a dachshund or a troublingly oversized rat.)

He tunes Wade out, content to explore. The suit leaves nothing to imagine but the texture of his skin. Even that can be felt if you push against the fabric, dig your thumbs in, map the taut, warm muscle beneath.

Wade knocks his skull off the wall. It releases a puff of plaster dust. He jabbers all the while, and somewhere along the line the conversation segues into a tirade about some _James Cameron_ (who, according to Wade, was right about the blue people but made a grievous mistake in his plagiarizing of Pocahontas (“You can’t do that to a Disney princess! It’s just _wrong_!”))

Nathan doesn’t try to follow.

Wade’s chatter, he has discovered, is much like the timestream. You don’t stick your oar in and presume that you’re in command. Even if you could control them, you would break something irreparable while doing so.

No, Nathan decides, huffing warm air on Wade’s groin cup. Sometimes you just have to hold your breath and follow the whirlpool down.

So he focuses less on what Wade’s mouth says and more on his body. The shake in the fingers that scrape the bullet-pocked wall. The high pug-like wheeze of his breath. The curve of his torso, hips canting forwards, chasing the warmth of Nathan's mouth.

He took his mask off approximately five seconds before Nathan kissed him (it would've been a bit awkward otherwise). His face looks disturbingly mushy, like something chewed up and spat out again. When Nathan stops circling his thumbs around Wade’s hipbones and strokes his way to the fly between, scars crinkle around his gasp.

“Oh, _yeah._ Oh _yeah!_ ”

“Yeah?” Nathan parrots, just to be sure.

“Oh yeah, the moon beautiful, the sun even more beautiful, oh _yeah…_ ”

“Very poetic, Wade. Can I please suck you off now?”

“In the words of Swiss band Yello and their hit 1985 single, _oh yeah.”_

Nathan understood all the words in that sentence separately. However, run them together and only the two at the ending retain their meaning. It's a yes, and an enthusiastic one at that.

Nathan wastes no time teasing him; he tugs down the zipper and introduces the protective cup to the incendiaries that roll around Wade's boots.

Wade’s _there._ Textured and musky and feverish-hot, falling through the slit to slap Nathan on the nose.

“Oh yeah,” Wade whimpers again when Nathan parts his lips over the tip. Then, bewilderingly – “Thank you, Ferris Bueller.”

Nathan, as usual, has no idea what he’s talking about. He concentrates on the job at hand.

Wade wasn’t exaggerating about his lower end’s looks. The scarring is relentless (“Ribbed for her pleasure,” Wade insists).

More disconcertingly still it _shifts,_ ridges slithering like maggots under Nathan’s tongue. Shiny patches stretch, burst into sores, then reseal again before they can drip, leaving the faintest metallic tang of blood.

It's like watching a sped-up lava flow. Horrifying yet magnetic. Nathan can’t look away – not in the least because he’s got his mouth full.

Wade prods the back of Nathan’s throat. Nate doesn’t have much of a gag reflex and, for all his bragging, Wade is of modest size - although he’s still swelling in Nathan’s mouth, and _Askani above,_ if the taste of his pulse isn’t one of the hottest things Nathan’s known.

“Nate,” Wade says. His gloves smell of gun smoke and taco grease. They trace Nathan’s cheeks as they hollow around him, dragging him slowly deeper, while his tongue wreaks gentle havoc on his tip.

“ _Nate._ Oh man, Nathan Drake. Lovable quip-sporting treasure-hunter of my heart. He could be my brother. Hell, maybe he _is_ my brother. Nolan can blame himself for that one, and…”

Nathan draws back from where he'd been lapping under the head, rubbing that delicate little ligament as another mouth had done to him twenty years prior. _Twelve sacred tongue positions of Alpha Centauri-IV_ was certainly a good opening line, but he’s barely through two and Wade has already lost focus.

Is he doing something wrong? Misremembering, perhaps?

No. His adventure in the Zatoan jungle had been quite hard to forget.

“Wade.”

“It’s just so _progressive_ to see a white straight male protagonist who isn’t some hyper-macho aggro chad, right? Oh – wait. Don’t stop, baby. Why’ve you stopped? No need to be jealous – I’ve got plenty of, uh, _Uncharted_ territory for you to explore.” Wade chuckled to himself. “Well. That’s not true; Vanessa’s a minx with the strappy-chappy. But don’t take this the wrong way – you strike me as a man who doesn’t mind sloppy seconds.”

“ _Wade._ ”

Wade looks down. His cock gleams, burnished by Nathan’s spit. It looks smoother like this, reflecting the light from the street. Sleeker, less like a mangled tortured thing, too smooth and too plastic.

Nathan wraps a hand around it to remind himself of what’s beneath.

That’s Wade.

It’s all Wade, from the horny pants to that unstoppable motormouth, to that grind into Nathan’s silver fist. The TO scratches the zipper rather than the other way around, and Wade's jaw _drops_ , and -

“ _Holy smokes, Batman_.”

“Good?” 

“I wanna crack a joke about you calling me Will Robinson,” Wade says – whines really, through tight-gritted teeth. He reaches over his head, clawing at the crumbling wall behind him, his other hand buried in Nathan’s hair. His nails scratch his scalp through the gloves, over and over, like he's trying to score lines in the skin. “But that's gross even by my standards and I don’t wanna alienate our audience and _can’t/mustn’t conflict_ and” –

Seems that focus isn’t due to arrive any time soon. Nathan can’t say he’s surprised – or even disappointed. If Wade truly did stop talking during sex, he’d suspect him for a Skrull imposter.

He pulls the crackly skin along his dick, drinking it in – the quiver of Wade’s abdomen under his suit, the drool shimmering on his chin. The man’s a symphony of babble and shaking breath, fucking and squirming, a slave to the tug of that TO fist.

Nathan’s cock nuzzles his thigh. He treats it to a conciliatory squeeze.

Soon, he promises himself. _Soon._

“Ten tongue positions to go,” he tells Wade. He grips Wade by the base of his dick and uses it to pull him closer, making his chatter cut off with a moan that has nothing to do with pain. Then he ducks back down and starts to lick.

 

* * *

 

 

Later, after Wade’s erupted messily over his face with a holler of “There’s the money shot!” and has recuperated enough to return the favor, they lie together on the stinking, jism-soused mattress and examine the constellations of mildew creeping over the ceiling from where the tenant of the room above has, according to Wade, _re-enacted that one scene from the fish-fucking movie, minus the fish._

“There,” says Wade, pointing. He's monopolized Nate’s chest for his pillow – flesh side, not TO. His cheek sticks to the prickly hairs, and when he peels off he leaves flakes of scar tissue behind. Nathan discreetly brushes them away.

“Where?”

“ _There._ ” Wade points a little more enthusiastically. “Alpha Centauri.”

Nathan tilts his head to one side, trying to configure the shapes. “You realize this doesn’t actually match starscapes from either hemisphere, either in your century or my own?”

“Will you take me there one day?”

Wade hasn’t taken off his costume – says he wants to leave some things to the imagination. The amber glow of the streetlights dribbles through the greasy window, drenching their sty of a room, the filthy bed. Nathan trails his TO fingers up and down Wade's side, jumping the bulge of the holster belt.

He suspects Wade wants him to make an ‘is that your gun’ joke, but Wade has a much shorter refractory period than he does. As his post-orgasmic rambles consisted of lyrical waxings on the subject of riding Nathan's dick, it’s best not to commit to what he can’t yet provide.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Aw. C’mon – your contact could always teach you a few more tongue positions.”

Nathan’s contact had been a thief with breath impossibly ranker than Deadpool’s. And those _teeth..._

Askani knew why he took him up on the offer – other than loneliness and misery and the mild fear that Greymalkin was truly broken and he would never see Earth again. But at the same time, that chance encounter carried him to this point in his life. Nathan supposes he can't be ungrateful.

“Why don’t we make up a few of our own?” he asks. Then, before Wade can shiver gleefully and roll to straddle his hips – “Tomorrow though. Definitely tomorrow.”

“Wuss.” But Wade stops his attempted resuscitation of Nathan's junk. He spreads a gloved hand over his chest, knocking gently like he wants his heart to ask ‘who’s there?’ “You better remember though. I'm not gonna.”

“Sure.”

“I mean, don't get me wrong. I always want to climb you like a koala unto a tree.”

“So long as there's no pap involved.”

“Pap? No, _don't_ elaborate; if you ruin koalas for me I will carve you a new cloaca. But point is, this hits way too close to several of my wetdream scenarios. Morning-me's going to make the logical assumption that the events of this evening were one big hallucination.”

Nathan enjoys a rare little curve of a smile. “I'll call you Will Robinson.”

Wade reaches for his holsters, then changes his mind and smacks him, then changes his mind and reaches for his holsters again.

“Gross! He's a _kid!_ Do I have to shoot you now? I think I have to shoot you now.”

 _Idiot._ “Wade, I don't know who this 'Will Robinson' is.”

“Oh.”

“Can you forgive me?”

“Can you give me more amazing blowjobs?”

Nathan lets his sleazy grin do the talking. “Can you put your guns out of reach so you can't shoot me if I make any more faux pas?”

Wade reluctantly removes his finger from the trigger guard. He tosses two regular sized pistols and a dinky one Nathan must've missed during his pre-sex disarmament in the vague direction of his grenades and melts over Nathan like a cat in sunlight. To take the metaphor further, he purrs when Nathan strokes him, nuzzling under his chin and kicking one leg over his.

 _My idiot,_ Nathan thinks. He strokes Wade's thigh, kisses his bald scarred head, and lets the static buzz of his mind lull him down into sleep.

 

**Author's Note:**

> **I'm posting this today, as (somewhat counter-intuitively) I see Deadpool 2 on Sunday. I suspect this characterisation is far more in-line with the comics, where Deadpool is a reference-a-minute spouting noise machine. From what I remember of the first film, he actually tones down the segues into inanity, just a little. And my Cable is definitely drawn from the comics, smirk _et al.,_ as that's my only point of reference for the delightful bugger. Yondu is a mash of his space-pimp persona from the comics and Rooker's brilliant film portrayal (aged down by forty years, for your viewing pleasure). Enjoy!**


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